The Stocking Was Hung(24)

“So, how come you never wish anyone a Merry Christmas?” I ask, finally getting up the nerve to question something that’s been on my mind since the night I met him and he didn’t respond to the bartender when he paid our bill.

Sam shrugs, slowing down his pace as we walk hand-in-hand, looking at the window displays at all the stores we pass.

“It just seems so superficial to me. Like, people just blurt it out as a reply because it’s what is expected of them, not because they actually mean it,” he explains, stopping in front of a store to check out the North Pole display complete with cotton all over the floor for snow and an animated Santa and Mrs. Clause bending toward each other for a kiss every five seconds. “I don’t know, it just seems pointless to repeat it back to someone when I’m not that into Christmas and have never celebrated it. If I say it to someone, I want to mean it. I want to feel the Christmas spirit and be happy about the holiday, otherwise it’s just bullshit.”

I stare at his profile, the prickling of tears in my eyes, quickly blinking them away when he turns to look at me.

“I sound like a giant *, don’t I?” he says with an embarrassed chuckle.

“No, you don’t. It makes sense now that you explained it. I thought you were just being an *.” I grin, trying to lighten the situation.

With a laugh, he maneuvers our joined hands until they’re bent behind my back and tugs me toward him, pressing our chests together.

“Well, I am kind of an *. Especially since I still haven’t given you a toe-curling orgasm yet after Santa gave me what I wanted for Christmas,” he muses, his heated gaze fixed on my mouth.

The smell of his light, woodsy cologne surrounds me, the warmth of his body lights a fire inside of me, and his strong arm wrapped around me, holding my hand hostage at the small of my back makes me want to drop down on the floor in front of Bath and Body Works and f*ck his brains out.

Screw being a good girl who shouldn’t sleep with a guy she just met. I mean, I’ve already had his dick in my mouth, might as well let him put it elsewhere.

Own the slut, embrace the slut, BE the slut. I want to do slutty, dirty things with this man, consequences be damned.

“Name the time and place, and my orgasm is your orgasm,” I reply.

Sam growls. He actually growls, all low and throaty like he wants to attack me right here, right now.

Check please!

“You’re killing me, you know that?” he whisper-hisses. “I’ve done nothing but think about being inside of you since I met you, and now you go and say something like that when we’re in a crowded mall filled with Christmas shoppers. And you’re family, who if memory serves me, will probably interrupt anything and everything we do.”

I sigh and take a step back from him before I come right out and tell him to take me into the closest bathroom and make good on that whole being inside of me thing. Jesus, is anything hotter than a gorgeous man telling you in a low voice that he’s been thinking about being in your body? Nope, I think not. Want to know the hottest thing Logan ever said to me? “Babe, we gotta make it quick. I have to be at a meeting in twenty minutes.”

Sam and I continue on our way and he pulls me into a large boutique store filled with dresses.

“Didn’t you say you needed something to wear for Christmas Eve?” he asks, when I question his choice of stores.

Shit, a Christmas Eve dress.

My mother expects everyone to dress formally for Christmas Eve dinner, and aside from jeans, sweaters, and my After Sex Pants that I grabbed in my haste to get the f*ck out of mine and Logan’s apartment before he came home from work, I forgot to pack anything formal. We walk through the dimly lit store, the loud, thumping base of rock Christmas music a complete contrast to the soft romantic lighting of all white lights hung from the ceiling and glittery snowflakes dangling from the beams.

I glance at a couple of price tags as we walk from rack-to-rack, mentally calculating what’s in my savings and just how much I can afford to throw away on a dress I’ll probably only wear once. I could just tell my mother the truth, that I lost my job and she’s just going to have to deal with me wearing jeans and a sweater to dinner. You know, if I feel like spending Christmas Eve dinner listening to her cry, wail, and complain about me screwing up my life again and never growing up.

Sam pulls a dark green, low-cut wraparound dress from one of the racks and hands it to me.

“Try this one on. My treat,” he tells me.

“You’re not buying me a dress,” I grumble, refusing to take it from his hand.

“Fine, then consider it payment for all the food I’ve eaten the last few days,” he answers, checking the price tag hanging from the three-quarter-length sleeve. “I’ve definitely stuffed my face with at least $92.75 worth of food.”

He shoves the dress in my direction again, giving me a stern look that warns me not to argue with him again. He doesn’t say anything about how I can’t afford it or remind me that I don’t have a job. Nothing that would make me feel like a loser. The fact that he doesn’t say anything and gives the excuse of him buying the dress to make up for the grocery bill makes me want to jump into his arms and beg him to never leave me.

With a huff, I yank the hanger out of his hand instead of doing something stupid. “Ugggghh, fine! But if this thing looks like shit on me, don’t laugh.”